Extraordinary
by alli-sun
Summary: John wants to ask a question. Sherlock already has the reply.


**Extraordinary**

**Summary** – John wants to ask a question. Sherlock already has the reply.

**Warning – **the truest homosexual relationship of all time and IMPLIED ensuing sex

**Disclaimer – **_Sherlock_ is under the ownership of BBC 1. I am making no money off this whatsoever.

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><p>"Evening Sherlock," John says. He sets his newspaper down just in time to look up at the flat mate in question closing the door behind him. "I—"<p>

"Oh save yourself the trouble, the answer is yes."

John blinks.

And with that begins what would be any other evening. Sherlock goes to hang his coat and scarf with a little shake of the head, as if to shake of the excess of the outside world from his impeccable exterior. A light mutter here and there about the state of his research. Removing his shoes and unbuttoning his cuffs, Sherlock finally reaches a level of comfort high enough to turn and say amiably, "Dinner soon?"

"Alright hang on," John says, his arms now crossed because no, no, no, he refuses to believe this. Not this time. "You couldn't have possibly known what I was going to ask the minute you walked through that door."

"Oh on the contrary," Sherlock snorts, walking over to the couch and stealing John's paper no less. _His _paper.

"Actually," John says stoutly, "maybe want to run that nanosecond of thinking by me."

"Is that doubt I hear?"

"Yes."

"And why so?"

"Well," John says, frowning," because you said yes too quickly. Far too quickly in fact, and I'd just like to make sure we're on the same page."

Sherlock gives him a look that resembles that of a bored child.

"Oh for Pete's sake Sherlock—" John begins.

"The moment I open the door you drop your paper, evidence that you've been expecting someone, not Sarah or else you would've shaven and not Mrs. Hudson since the flat is untouched since yesterday and you think for some preposterous reason that appearances are important in front of our landlady. Had this been a meeting for work you would've stood up from your chair but no you remain sitting, therefore you expect a serious conversation but not too grim and perhaps not even too serious, bringing this to _me_. And what would you ask me? No, don't answer that. It's not about the flat, you don't look irritable enough to complain about the dishes, or the groceries, or whatever silly complaint you have with my experiments with human body parts. Nor do you look concerned; so anything seriously problematic, family, crime-solving, all out. This is about our personal relationship, not anything you don't want about it, we've been getting along amicably for weeks. No, it's more about what you don't have. And what could that be? We're colleagues, flat mates, friends, the only thing that's left is, of course, a relationship. So knowing that you would completely blunder over a sensitive topic like _that_, I asked me for you."

Sherlock opens the paper in one sharp _snap_. He's finished his deduction. "So, what'll it be, dinner in 10?"

John gapes. But, unbeknownst to him, with a slight grin at the corners of his mouth.

After a brief silence, Sherlock turns the page. "So, tell me what I got wrong."

"Oh," John says, pretending to think, "you've got that mostly right, just that last part you should probably reconsider.

Sherlock looks up. "What?" he exclaims disbelievingly.

"Not dinner," John says. "Movie. Thought you should watch some quality film for once rather than that shit on the telly."

"Damn!" The word bursts out of his mouth like a bullet. Sherlock tosses the paper into the rubbish ban and begins to pace about. "Movie, of course! Dinner we've already done a million times but _movie_—"

"Very well done though," John says quickly before Sherlock could go on, possibly for the next twenty minutes. "I honestly didn't expect you to get that from a single glance. Have you gotten better?"

Sherlock pauses to look at him. "No, I've just gotten used to you." And he continues pacing.

"But," John says, still unable to believe it, "what happened to—what was it—'I'm married to my work'? You're unattached. You don't want anyone interfering with your life—"

"John, am I correct in assuming that you _work_ with me?" Sherlock says in an annoyingly obvious tone.

"Yes."

"Well there you go."

Silence ensues. John sits with Sherlock's answer fresh in his mind, relief slowly dawning on his face like a little boy on Christmas morning. His passionate, nasty, clueless madman of a flat mate who repetitively puts him in life-threatening situations and has about the relationship experience of a newborn has just said _yes_.

"Can we go already?" Sherlock asks, completely ruining this happy moment for him. "All this idle standing about is making me antsy."

"Oh alright then," John says, practically leaping up to grab his coat, only to turn around and see Sherlock already tying his scarf 'round his neck. "You get done quickly, don't you?"

Sherlock smirks. "Not when it really matters." John's eyes widen. "Don't worry, I'll act surprised. But best we sit in the back if you're expecting _that_, my dear Watson."

John doesn't have the chance to say 'you couldn't have possibly known about_ that_' because Sherlock is already out the door and on his way down the steps. But he has the perfect amount of time to stare after him. And after a few seconds, he shakes his head, whispers, "Extraordinary, Sherlock," and goes to follow.


End file.
